


Crossed Wires

by pocky_slash



Series: grace coming out of the void [10]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, Lunch, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Episode 32
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 04:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20687864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: During a quiet lunch alone before the battle, Indrid finally asks a question that's been on his mind.(At least, he thinks he asked the question.)





	Crossed Wires

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! Sorry to the three of you reading these for the lull between stories! I know I said "in two weeks" and then "before the next episode" and it turns out it was neither. (Believe it or not, I had 95% of this written before I left for DragonCon in August and then just...........could not write the last five sentences.)
> 
> SO, this story takes place after "[you're all i'm looking for](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820569)" and before "[these moments that we have](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156692)." I had expressed to a few people that I had wanted to write one more story in between those two, where Indrid and Barclay have a very confusing lunch where they are talking about two separate topics without realizing it, but the episodes were moving too fast for me to manage it. But it turns out you can just go back and write whatever stories you want in whatever order you want to fill in the gaps later. Crazy, I know.
> 
> So this is the lunch that is referenced in "these moments that we have," where Indrid is thinking a lot about how he wants to get married and, perhaps, does not do an adequate job of expressing that desire clearly. (I actually went back and tweaked some of the conversation in that fic to better line up with this one.)
> 
> Anyway, thanks to heyjupiter for the quick beta! And thank YOU for taking the time to read this.

Indrid has seen the inside of Mrs. Pearson's apartment in a series of disjointed visions over the past few weeks, but it's only now that he's standing in the middle of the room, taking it all in, that those visions slot themselves into something resembling order. It feels good, seeing the future solidify in front of him. The rate that the future has been changing these last few weeks has left him unmoored to an uncomfortable degree. He doesn't like to think that he relies on his premonitions to help him function--true in his youth, maybe, but an impossible way to live now--but he can't deny the helplessness that has settled over him while they've been so unreliable.

Maybe that's why he's been so hasty to make his own plans. Maybe he needs something concrete to hold onto.

But no. That's unfair. It's unfair to Barclay and it's unfair to Indrid's own desires, the things he had quietly, absently wanted when he assumed they had all the time in the world. These aren't the futile future wishes of a dying man, these are achievable goals that have been put into starker focus by the approaching end of the world.

Possible end of the world.

Probable end of the world?

He shakes his head clear and abandons the living room to join Barclay in the kitchen.

"Almost done," Barclay says, glancing at Indrid over his shoulder with a small smile. Indrid smiles back automatically, even as he glances curiously around the kitchen. Much like the rest of the apartment, it's cluttered and lived in, but not kitschy. He has a feeling the meticulous order to the clutter is Barclay's doing--he's known Barclay long enough to read his particular organizational style in the way the spices on the rack are lined up and the catalogs on the table are separated into neat piles. Everything in its place, always, put away the moment it's through being used.

Living with Barclay full time again might be...a bit of an adjustment. But worth it.

He sits at the kitchen table and watches as Barclay finishes up at the stove. He moves fluidly, even in this kitchen he's only known for a matter of weeks. Indrid supposes their old life trained him into it. They rarely stayed in one place more than a month or two, and Barclay was always insistent on getting a job to pass the time and to keep his own accounts, even though Indrid's various investments provided more than enough for both of them to live comfortably. Barclay had to adjust to new environments quickly and prepare to leave them just as quickly. Indrid didn't give it a second thought back then, but after seeing how much more comfortable Barclay was at Amnesty Lodge--spending years in the same place, doing the same thing--he can recognize the stiffness in his shoulders now, the way he hasn't quite settled in the way he was settled at Amnesty Lodge.

He hopes, for Barclay's sake, that the Lodge is salvageable. He hopes for his own that Barclay will be comfortable enough salvaging the Lodge from the outside instead of moving back in.

He doesn't let himself go down that path for long. Instead, he thinks about a brighter future, one with a new kitchen for Barclay to learn. He imagines what it would be like to do this every day--sit silently off to the side and watch as Barclay puts together meals for them in the place where they live, together. Will it take him time to adjust to a new space, or will it be different if it's their home? Will the stiffness in his shoulders melt away despite the unfamiliar surroundings, just because it's a place they chose together?

Indrid probably shouldn't linger in the future to this degree, especially in a future that he's creating in his own mind rather than seeing play out before him. It's a little addictive, though. It's so freeing to open himself to any possibility, outside of the possibilities that seem likely or reasonable. He can imagine anything for them--a house, a garden, a future. It's all there, nearly as crisp and clear as his premonitions, the imagined colors and sensations rich and full from how badly he wants them.

And, of course, there are other things that he wants. Drunk on the possibility of creating his own path, it's effortless to see more. He's had less than a week to process the realization that he would like very badly to marry Barclay, in one fashion or another. He's not concerned with whether it's a traditional Sylvan formal partnership ceremony or something closer to an Earth marriage--what he's focused on is the recognition. He wants to make a statement. He wants the people within their world to acknowledge what a part of him has known since he and Barclay reunited in the winter: that he wants Barclay to be a permanent part of his life for as long as he has left.

It's a statement to those around him and a statement to Barclay as well, really. A promise. A promise that he's not leaving again, not ever, not if he can help it. A promise that he hopes Barclay reciprocates.

"Thinking hard?" Barclay asks above the sizzle of the pan on the stove.

"In a way," Indrid says. "Mostly just happy to be here with you, my dear."

"Don't get sentimental on me, now," Barclay says while utterly failing not to sound sentimental himself. He flicks off the burner and then moves their sandwiches onto plates, where he cuts them in half diagonally before bringing them to the table. "Sorry we don't have anything better in--it seemed stupid to buy groceries when the world was about to end. I'll go this weekend if we live through tonight."

"No need to apologize," Indrid says. He's perfectly happy with a grilled cheese, as Barclay knows. Barclay's sandwich appears to have various green things sticking out of it as well, but he wisely skipped those when making Indrid's. "I'm easy."

Barclay snorts. "You are the pickiest eater I've ever met," he says. "You are picky on a level that I, someone who is used to serving meals to tourist children, can barely comprehend some days."

"That's not entirely fair," Indrid lies.

"What you meant," Barclay continues, settling into a seat across from Indrid, "is that you have incredibly basic tastes."

"Well." Indrid sniffs and picks up his sandwich in a show of offense that he doesn't necessarily feel. "If you're going to be rude about it."

It pulls a smile out of Barclay, despite his best efforts to hide it behind his own sandwich. "You're the one who's signing up to surround yourself with this twenty-four/seven." He gestures at himself with half his sandwich, head tilted to the side with a wry grin.

Indrid puts his sandwich down again. "Normally, this is where I would make a joke about how I'm reconsidering that choice," he says carefully, "but after the last few days, I don't want to say anything, even in jest, that might plant doubt in your mind as to my dedication to this." He wonders if now is a good time to spell it out, and then almost laughs at himself. They world is quite possibly ending. There won't be a better time. He takes a deep breath and adds, "I want to...I want to make a commitment to you, Barclay."

He braces himself for Barclay's reaction--he's assumed, based on their conversations over the past few days, that he'll get a positive response, but his visions of the future have been all over the place this month and he's not sure he can trust them right now. He's not sure he even wants to look at them closely, so he shuts away that part of his brain as he watches Barclay intently for any hint of a reaction.

He grins. Indrid relaxes.

"That means a lot to me," Barclay says softly. He smiles at Indrid across the table, a little awkward but warm and genuine. "I don't know if I really properly expressed that? But it does."

"I'm glad it does," Indrid says, perhaps a hair too quickly. Relief is still flooding his system. It's silly--his nerves were silly, his fears were silly, there was no reason to twist himself up over this, even if he had barely realized he'd done so until the moment had passed. It's logical that Barclay would be amenable to formalizing their relationship if he was already so excited at the prospect of living together. "I've been nervous about it. Not about the decision, mind you, but I know I can be trying."

Barclay snorts. "And I'm not? I'm pretty sure you're gonna be begging to escape after a week, tops." 

"Never," Indrid assures him, with perhaps more vehemance than he needs. Barclay's look softens.

"I'll be honest," he says, more quietly, "there's a part of me that can't stop replaying all the greatest hits of our arguments over and over again. But we're different people now. Even the fact that you know enough to understand this is something I want shows how much we've both changed."

He's not wrong. They went decades without discussing commitment beyond establishing their exclusivity. They lived in the same small space, spent all their time together, had few-to-no outside connections, and it never crossed Indrid's mind that this might be something Barclay would want. Hell, it never crossed Indrid's mind that it might be something _he_ would want.

"I didn't even realize I wanted it until recently," he says. "And even then, it was easy to just say, 'that's something to consider further down the line' and move on. I didn't see it in our immediate future and I used that as an excuse to avoid interrogating how much I actually wanted it."

In the face of an endless cycle of abominations, fractured contact with Sylvain, Barclay's work at Amnesty Lodge, and Indrid's work elsewhere, marriage seemed like something to think about in the future. _Once everything's settled_, he thought to himself the first time the idea occurred to him. They had only just gotten back together. Their time together was limited. They had so much else to focus on. There was nothing wrong with the status quo, so he didn't bother to think too hard about alternatives.

And he relied too, too much on premonitions to lead the way. He always has. These past few weeks, testing the freedom to dictate his own future desires, are making that very clear.

"I know it's stupid to put the cart before the horse--we've gotta save the world first--but...." Barclay starts to say, looking down at his plate as his ears turn a tell-tale pink. "Um, I'll admit it's a comforting thing to cling to when the enormity of what we're facing starts to give me heart palpitations. Planning the minutiae is a good distraction."

If hearing Barclay so readily accept Indrid's proposal made him relax, this admission finds him finally comfortable. If Barclay's been planning things, it means he's been having the same thoughts and desires as Indrid. It's proof that the idea has taken root in his mind, that this isn't a hasty agreement or something he's conceded to because death is nipping at their heels. Barclay plans both compulsively and for comfort, and if this is what he's turning to during what's probably the most stressful few days of either of their lives so far, it's a good sign.

"I hadn't realized you'd already dug deep into the planning, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised," Indrid says. Barclay peeks up at him again.

"I do love a plan," he admits. "And organizing. And knowing what to expect. And keeping things in order. In a totally healthy and non-pathological way."

Knowing Barclay as he does, he can only imagine that he has the color scheme, the ceremony, the guests, the venue, and, if nothing else, the menu already in progress in his mind. And, honestly, as they inch closer to the final battle, Indrid can think of nothing he'd like more than lying in bed and listening to Barclay outline his "suggestions" for the day. 

But....

"I don't necessarily believe in the concept of 'jinxing' things by talking about them prematurely," Indrid says slowly. "That's not how the future works, of course. I do think perhaps it's best for us to wait to delve into the details until tomorrow."

"As long as there is a tomorrow," Barclay mutters.

"There will be," Indrid insists, without the benefit of any future visions to confirm it. "If only so I have a chance to hear everything you want out of our future together."

Barclay hums in response and, after a beat, asks, "And what do you want? From our future, I mean."

"The details aren't important to me, not yet." Indrid shrugs. "I just want to do this with you. I just want to have this with you. Share it." 

It's the statement that's important to him, but he doesn't know how to say that without sounding either dismissive or maudlin. While he's sure that whatever Barclay wants out of a gathering or ceremony will be a memory he'll hold dear, it's the recognition that he's yearning for. What they have will always be precious, regardless of whether anyone else ever acknowledges it, but making a public promise is a different kind of validation, a different kind of security.

"You can do whatever you want," Indrid says. "I'll just be happy to be there."

"There's that sentiment sneaking in again," Barclay murmurs. He nudges Indrid's foot under the table with his toe. "Eat your sandwich before it gets cold."

"Yes, my darling," Indrid says, and dutifully picks up half of his grilled cheese.

"And, honestly," Barclay adds softly, "Being there with you is important to me too. I don't know that I'd want to do this with anyone else either."

No one, in all of Indrid's years, has ever understood him and supported him the way Barclay has. Even on their worst days, Barclay's presence was comforting at its base level, and now that they're together again and thriving, Indrid has never felt so grounded. Barclay is the kindest person Indrid has ever met, and also thoughtful and hardworking and a good cook, to boot. He's incredibly handsome by Earth's standards and encompasses many of the traits that make one an attractive prospect on Sylvain. For all that he can be anxious and uncommunicative and hesitant, he's still a wonderful partner, much better than Indrid thinks he deserves in even his most arrogant moments.

That Barclay wants this future with him seems unreal at times, and Indrid promises himself he's never going to take it for granted again. He's not sure he can keep that promise, realistically, but it feels good to make it, nonetheless.

"I'm glad we had a moment to talk about this," he murmurs. "I'm glad we're on the same page." 

"I am too," Barclay says, his tone just as soft. They look at each other for a moment, silent and smitten as they stare across the table. Barclay is the one who breaks their gaze, pointing at Indrid to say, "But I'm serious about your sandwich. It won't be as good cold."

"Whatever you say, my dear," Indrid says, and does as he's told.

The world is likely ending tonight, and even if it doesn't, it will be irreparably changed. But no matter what happens, at least he'll have Barclay on his side. Right now, that's all that matters; the rest they can work out later.

**Author's Note:**

> We'll see how the finale goes. If nothing else, I still have half of that Ikea fic I keep promising.


End file.
